Monday, November 16, 2009

Upon this mantle trellis of interwoven lattice hope
all the tinsel stalks me, all the wayward glances keep
coming back like mirrors. The faces I look into like glass portraits, smooth and perfect china.
Where do we go from here if not forward, my porcelain chin slightly askew of yesterday and still.
Still I roam nomadic through a world of fine silver,
watching the table settings, minding my elbows and knees.
I surrender today and submit tomorrow to the wind, I release the sky blue and let go of the clouds. I spew the ocean breath in lines of diluted salt.
Where is this heading if not West of here, across plateaus of umber green fields, out to the peopled
spaces of confession.
Here I am, standing stone and eroding in all the right places, this flesh mired by its own forgiveness, wrinkled by its own need to feel love.
I am wading mirrors, walking on brittle circumstance and yet still untethered by the stars.
Onward this goes, toward the horizon, touching ankles and necks with trinkets of hope. I will never give up,
these words cannot remain silent, and the silence becomes me.